Misconducts & Temptation (The Crestwood Elite Hockey Academy #10)

11. Elodie

Chapter 11

Elodie

I pulled on the starch polo and the stiff pants, the fabric rough against my skin. My fingers worked quickly, fastening buttons with practiced precision. I grabbed my purse, knowing the campus shuttle wouldn’t wait for me. I wanted to be out of this house as soon as possible.

Heading down the stairs, I heard movement in the kitchen. Marion was already awake, her presence a dark cloud in the early morning light.

She looked up from her cup of coffee and smiled at me, a smile that never reached her eyes. "It seems like William wants to marry sooner rather than later," she said, her tone dripping with false sweetness.

I said nothing, my lips pressed into a thin line. Hadn’t they already said that?

"When you get home from work," she continued, "start packing nonessentials. Friday, you’ll be a bride and all of my problems, including you, will be gone."

My heart lurched at her words. The reality of it crashed over me like a cold wave.

"I don't understand," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She laughed, the sound bitter and cold. "The things you couldn't comprehend are too many to guess," she said, setting her coffee cup down with a clink. "You'll have to explain."

"You loved my father," I insisted, my eyes searching hers for any trace of the woman who once showed kindness. "I know you did. So, how could you do this to me?"

"What does my love for him have anything to do with you?" she demanded, standing slowly, her chair scraping against the floor. "You want to know why I loathe you? Why I can't stand you? Because no matter what I did for your father, no matter how much I loved him, it was never good enough. His priority has always been you above everyone else."

I stiffened, taken aback by her admission. Jealousy? Of me? It seemed almost silly, like a cruel joke.

"Love between a man and wife is much different than between a man and his daughter," I said quietly.

"You'd like to think that, I'm sure," she spat. "Go. Before I make you late to your job and your precious summer classes. William won't tolerate your education so get used to not being there."

I clenched my teeth, the urge to argue bubbling up inside me. But I knew better than to engage her now. Silence was my shield.

Without another word, I turned and walked out the door, the weight of her words pressing down on me like a lead blanket.

I trudged down the gravel path, my shoes kicking up small stones that clattered and skittered ahead of me. The early morning air was cool, but my thoughts burned hot with anger and desperation. Trees lined the road. The quarter mile to the shuttle stop felt longer than usual, each step heavy with the weight of Marion's words.

How could I escape this marriage? William's looming presence, his intentions clear and suffocating, clouded my mind. Keaton's offer flickered like a distant beacon, but doubts gnawed at me. Was he serious? Could I really rely on him? He was a stranger, someone with his own tangled mess of problems. I needed a plan that didn't hinge on the whims of a rich hockey player.

The shuttle stop came into view, an old wooden bench beneath a weathered sign. I glanced around, making sure I was alone before sinking onto the bench. The sun had barely risen, casting long shadows across the ground. I pulled my phone from my purse, checking the time. Five minutes until the shuttle arrived.

I could run away, I thought. Just disappear and start fresh somewhere else. I could write anywhere. But where would I go? How would I survive? Crestwood Academy was my only lifeline—my scholarship, my job as a locker room attendant—everything tied me to this place. And I knew my father would never want me to run away when things got hard.

The rumble of the approaching shuttle pulled me from my thoughts. It rounded the corner, its engine grumbling like an old bear waking from hibernation. The doors hissed open, and I climbed aboard, nodding to the driver.

"Morning," he greeted me with a tired smile.

"Morning," I replied, forcing a small smile in return.

I took a seat by the window, the vinyl seat cool against my legs. The shuttle jerked forward, its tires crunching over gravel before settling onto the smooth asphalt road.

As we drove through town, the scenery shifted from suburban homes to open fields and then to dense clusters of trees. My mind raced alongside the passing landscape. Crestwood Academy loomed ahead—a sanctuary and a prison all at once.

I needed to figure this out before Friday. The academy's imposing gates came into view, flanked by stone pillars that seemed more like sentinels guarding secrets than simple architecture. The shuttle slowed as we approached the entrance.

My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped off the bus and onto campus grounds, ready to face another day of uncertainty and quiet determination.

The campus looked different in summer, with sunlight painting everything in a golden hue. The manicured lawns stretched out like green carpets, dotted with clusters of students enjoying the warm weather. The flowers in the garden beds exploded in vibrant colors, and the air buzzed with the hum of cicadas.

I made my way toward Pandora's Box, the campus rink. It stood at the edge of the sports complex, its sleek design contrasting sharply with the old brick buildings around it. As I approached, I could hear the faint sound of skates slicing across ice and the occasional shout from a coach. I wondered if the rookie camp had already started, or if it was still early.

Pushing open the heavy doors, I stepped inside. The chill hit me immediately. The smell of ice and sweat mingled in the air, a scent I had grown accustomed to over my months working here. I nodded to a few familiar faces as I walked past, heading for the locker rooms.

My steps echoed in the quiet hallway as I approached the administration building next door. This was where my day truly began. Inside, it was cool and dimly lit, a refuge from both the heat and noise outside. I moved through the halls with purpose, making my way to my cubby.

Setting my bag down carefully, I grabbed a stack of fresh towels from the shelf. The soft fabric felt comforting under my fingers, a small luxury amidst my chaotic life. I slung them over my arm and headed back out.

My mind wandered to Keaton as I walked back toward Pandora's Box. His intense blue eyes flashed in my memory, and I wondered if our paths would cross again today. It seemed unlikely—he probably had better things to do than spend time with someone like me—but the thought lingered, nonetheless.

The rink came back into view as I rounded the corner. A few players were already on the ice, their movements fluid and practiced. I paused for a moment, watching them glide effortlessly across the surface. It was mesmerizing in its own way.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the locker room door and stepped inside, ready to start another day of work.

I stepped into the girl’s locker room, the faint scent of lavender and disinfectant mingling in the cool air. My routine started with emptying the laundry bins, a task that had become second nature. I picked up the heavy bag of used towels and uniforms, lugging it over to the rolling bin where I would then take it to the industrial washer down the hall.

The rhythmic patting of skates on rubber echoed through the room as a couple of figure skaters entered, their laughter light and carefree. They didn’t spare me a glance as they continued their animated conversation.

"Did you hear about the masquerade this weekend?" one of them asked, her voice high and excited.

"Of course! Everyone's talking about it," the other replied, pulling off her skates and setting them neatly on the bench. "I heard Keaton Douglas is looking for someone."

My ears perked up at the mention of Keaton's name. I kept my head down, pretending to focus on folding a fresh stack of towels.

"What? Who? I thought he went through girls the way Coach goes through drills," the first skater said, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "No way it's someone he actually cares about."

The second girl giggled. "Well, he's getting married to Lola Perez! There's always some drama with him. It's obvious he doesn't want to, though I don't know why. She's rich and gorgeous, and didn't they date back in high school?"

Their words hung in the air, buzzing like persistent flies. I busied myself with refilling the soap dispensers and wiping down the benches, trying to block out their chatter. But it was impossible not to hear every word.

"I heard it didn't end well," one of them mused. "Lola's been all over him lately, but they say he's not interested, even with her being so rich."

"Lola's always around," her friend said with a roll of her eyes. "She just can't take a hint."

They both laughed, a sound that felt sharp and cutting in my ears.

I moved to the lockers next, making sure each one was stocked with clean towels and supplies. The skaters continued their conversation as if I were invisible, their words painting a vivid picture of a world so different from mine.

"Did you go?" one asked.

"Duh," her friend replied. "How could I not? I wanted to hook up with Tristan, and I knew he was going, so…"

A pang of longing hit me as I listened to them plan their evening. I couldn’t afford such luxuries or time for dreams like theirs.

The last locker closed with a satisfying click, signaling the end of my tasks here. I gathered my cleaning supplies and headed toward the door, leaving behind their world of masquerades and gossip for mine of hard work and silent determination.

As I wheeled the cart of dirty towels down the hall, the skaters' words echoed in my mind. Who could Keaton be looking for? Could it be… The idea seemed ridiculous, yet it clung to me like a stubborn shadow.

I pushed open the heavy door to the laundry room, the smell of detergent and bleach hitting me as I stepped inside. The industrial-sized washer stood like a giant bug, waiting for its next load. I began transferring the towels from the cart to the washer, each movement methodical and precise.

Keaton Douglas. The name itself carried weight, a mix of privilege and mystery. He was everything I wasn't—wealthy, popular, confident. And yet, for a fleeting moment, I wondered if he could be looking for someone like me.

No. Why would he be looking for me? I was just a scholarship student, an invisible worker in the background of his grand life. We had one interaction. He didn't even know it was me. My fingers fumbled with the last towel, and I shook my head, trying to dispel the absurd notion.

I closed the washer door with a solid thunk and set it to start its cycle. As the machine roared to life, I leaned against the cool tiled wall, allowing myself a moment's break. My eyes drifted shut, and against my better judgment, I let my mind wander.

What if Keaton were looking for me? What if, by some twist of fate, he saw something in me that no one else did? A small smile touched my lips as I imagined it—Keaton's intense blue eyes locking onto mine across a crowded room, his guarded expression softening as he approached.

"Elodie," he'd say, his voice low and warm. "I've been looking for you."

I shook my head again, opening my eyes to the harsh fluorescent lights above. It was a fantasy, nothing more. But even so, that small smile lingered on my face as I pushed away from the wall and moved to prepare the next load of laundry.

Reality was waiting outside this room, but for now, in this brief stolen moment, anything seemed possible.

I gathered my supplies and headed toward the men’s locker room, pushing the cart in front of me. The wheels squeaked slightly on the polished floor, echoing in the quiet hallway. As I approached the door, I hesitated for a moment before knocking firmly.

"Hello? Locker room attendant," I called out, my voice carrying through the thick wood.

Silence greeted me. I waited a few seconds before knocking again, louder this time.

"Is anyone in there? I'm coming in," I announced, giving them one last chance to respond.

Still nothing. I sighed and pushed the door open, stepping into the cool, dimly lit space. The familiar smell of sweat and faint traces of cologne hit me immediately. The room was empty, save for the rows of lockers standing like silent sentinels.

I let out a small breath of relief and started my routine. The first task was always collecting any stray items left behind. I scanned the benches and floors, picking up a few discarded water bottles and some crumpled-up papers.

As I moved further into the locker room, the air seemed to grow heavier, the quiet almost oppressive. It was rare to find the men’s locker room completely empty—usually, there were at least a couple of players hanging around after practice or a game.

I paused in front of Keaton’s locker. It stood out among the others, not because it was different but because of who it belonged to. I shook my head, trying to dispel thoughts of him as I continued my work.

Reaching into my cart, I grabbed a fresh stack of towels and began replacing the used ones in each locker. The repetitive motions were almost soothing, giving me something to focus on other than my swirling thoughts.

I worked quickly and efficiently, wanting to get through this task without any interruptions. Each towel neatly folded and placed with precision—a small act of control in an otherwise chaotic life.

Finally, with all the towels replaced, and the room tidied up, I moved to the laundry bins in the corner. They were nearly full, overflowing with sweaty uniforms and damp towels from previous games and practices. Wrinkling my nose slightly at the smell, I started transferring them into my cart for their journey to the industrial washers.

At that moment, the door burst open and Keaton himself walked in, looking disheveled and slightly out of place. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his hair was a wild mess, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. The sight of him was almost comical—like some disheveled demon had somehow ended up at Crestwood Academy.

“... wasn't fucking her, Derek,” he said, his voice sharp and irritated. “I had her try on the mask and everything. I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

Keaton didn’t even notice me standing there, half-hidden behind my cart of dirty laundry. My heart pounded in my chest, and I decided it was probably best if I kept it that way. Slowly, carefully, I tried to make my way toward the exit without drawing any attention.

Just as I thought I was in the clear, the corner of my cart caught on a locker. The metallic clang echoed through the room.

“Shit,” I whispered under my breath.

There was a pause—a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on forever.

“I’ll call you back,” Keaton said, his tone now flat and uninterested. He turned toward me, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine. “Well, well, well. Look at you.”

He smirked, taking a step closer. My pulse quickened as I stood frozen in place, unable to look away from his intense gaze.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and curious.

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. The weight of his attention felt both terrifying and exhilarating all at once. If only I was slick enough to figure out what I was going to say.